


(don't have) the right to breathe free

by Blueberries (Blueberries_Pen)



Category: DCU, Teen Titans - All Media Types
Genre: Asphyxiation, Hurt Dick Grayson, Intentional misgendering of a trans character, M/M, Misgendering, Slade Wilson is an Asshole, Trans Dick Grayson, breath play, threats of pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22707916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueberries_Pen/pseuds/Blueberries
Summary: Slade makes Robin strip.Then it gets worse.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 177





	(don't have) the right to breathe free

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sitting for like a month and i am sick of seeing it just lazing about so even if i still kinda (haha i wanna murder it) hate the ending *throws it at you* FEAST UPON IT  
> funnily enough i got the inspiration to finish it after reading a webcomic (no it's not nasty) where the main character and co has to fight for the right to breathe freely and then my mind went 'do asphyxiation kink. doooo itttttt' so i did it

“Strip.” The order flows like a bucket of cold water being dumped over his head. 

He stares, eyes suddenly wide and incredulous. “You want me to change my clothes _here?”_ Here, in the light, with Slade watching his every move?

Slade arches an eyebrow. “Obviously. I wouldn’t put it past you to try to sneak in something in your uniform if you could.”

His mouth is dry. He _can’t_ change in front of Slade. “I–I won’t. I swear.”

Slade merely inclines his head. “I don’t believe you,” he says simply. “This isn’t up for debate, Robin.”

Robin’s eyes flickers, searching automatically for a way out. There are at least three exits he can use.

_The nanobots._

But none he will. Not with his friends lives at stake.

“I’m not doing it in front of you,” Robin tries to insist in an even tone, but it still cracks. 

“Either you do it, Robin,” Slade says, like a predator that’s sensed weakness and is now closing in for the kill. “Or I do it for _you.”_

Robin shakes his head. “No,” he whispers, taking a step back. He never– he didn’t even take his top off with Bruce if he could help it, and Bruce _knew_. And his friends didn’t even _know,_ and he didn’t change in front of them ever. Not even if he’s injured. Rae usually doesn’t have a problem healing over clothes, and Gar and Vic– they _understand,_ why someone might not be comfortable with showing uncovered skin. 

And yet, if he doesn’t obey here, they’ll–

He shudders. _They won’t._

Taking off clothes in front of other people just isn’t something he does. And now Slade wants him to give him that, just like that? Is he _crazy?_ He can’t do it, he _can’t._

So distressed by his thoughts is he that he doesn’t notice Slade’s approach until it’s too late. The man looms in front of him, tall and unyielding, and Robin tries to scramble back, but–

Slade’s arm is just as unforgiving as the rest of him, winding around him to press Robin tight against Slade’s chest. He crashes face first into it, unable to breathe, shaking hands going for the weapons in his belt but it slips through his fingers–flying across the room as Slade carelessly tosses it away. 

It’s fine. Robin has other weapons. 

His hands reach–

Breath chokes _again_ as Slade pulls back his cape, opening the clasp easily. 

“Slade!” Robin’s protest is _meant_ to sound furious, angry, like a wrathful roar, but it’s weak and panicky instead. Slade’s hand hook under his vest, and Robin’s hands shove against his chest in an effort to push him off, but that only helps Slade take off the vest instead. 

Robin breathes harshly, in his green undershirt and pants, staring in horrified at awe at how easily Slade had undressed him this much. He wants to run.

_Vic, Rae, Gar,_ Kory–

Robin stays. “Stop,” he says, scrambling back against a pile of crates. “Just–just give me the uniform, alright? I’ll wear it, okay?”

“Too late,” Slade purrs, advancing again. Closer to Robin and his secrets.

“No!” His voice is too high, edging on hysterical, and he doesn’t know how Slade’s unbalanced him so _easily_. 

“Oh, Robin,” Slade says, sounding amused as he casually blocks Robin’s sloppy kick by grasping his foot. He squeezes, the pressure felt even through the thickness of of his boots, and Robin wonders why he didn’t kick harder. “You want your friends to die so soon?”

_That_ would be why. 

“No,” Robin whispers, voice quiet, defeated. 

“Then stay still, _boy,”_ Slade sneers, tugging off Robin’s boot. He drops the foot, and as Robin stumbles to regain his balance, grasps his hands and pulls off the gloves. For a moment, as Robin’s tiny wrists are grasped in Slade’s larger hands, Robin’s certain Slade’s gonna break them. 

The moment passes, and Slade drops them. “Take off your boot,” he orders lightly, watching Robin.

Robin stumbles back. He stares at Slade with wide eyes still hidden behind his mask, and then with shaking fingers goes to take it off.

It’s–it’s not like it matters, does it, if Slade knows? Why would he care, even?

He might _mock_ him about it, but that’s all–

“Too slow, Robin,” Slade chides, and with a sharp pull, drags Robin up by the back of his top. Robin chokes around the collar, hands dropping the boot to instead dig his fingers into Slade’s hand. It’s ineffectual– no matter how much he struggles, no matter how he may kick or claw or snarl, Slade takes off the top without a care. 

“Oh?” Slade says, arching an eyebrow, and Robin hates how the amusement practically drips off his tone. “Is this what you were trying to hide so fiercely, Robin?”

Robin glares, chin tilted up in defiance even as arms cross defensively over his chest. “Fuck you.” 

Slade chuckles, and steps closer. “Take it off.”

“Are you stupid? No!” the words burst out instantly from his mouth. He wants to regret them as he sees Slade’s eye narrow, but can’t. “It’s not like I can _hide_ anything here. Just give me your uniform, okay?”

Slade hums consideringly, and suddenly, he’s there, And Robin can’t _breathe_ anymore, all the breath knocked out of him by Slade’s knee– he’s bent over, wheezing, pain blooming across his abdomen, and then he can’t even try to intake air when Slade’s hand clasps _tight_ around his neck–

Robin’s mouth is open, trying to get the littlest bit of air in him, but there is no breath in him and Slade’s tight grip on his throat ensures that _nothing_ can get in. He just hangs there, utterly _helpless_ , from Slade’s hand with his toes not even touching the ground, tears blooming at the corner of his eyes. _Please,_ he mouths at Slade, hands weakly curling around Slade’s own.

He does not have the breath to speak.

Slade doesn’t even look at him, instead flicking out a sharp looking blade, and Robin feels his heartbeat rapidly accelerate even as his air dies out.

Oh _hell._

A single teardrop escapes him. 

Robin’s pissed him off, and now Slade’s going to stab him and carve him open and–

The knife move too fast for Robin’s dizzy vision to make sense of, but it doesn’t _hurt._ It moves again, and he can hear something tear but he doesn’t understand what.

Slade drops him, and Robin immediately curls forward into a ball, desperately coughing and gulping down air. _It’s cold,_ is the first thing he thinks as he comes back enough. His skin– from his chest to legs to even his ass– is entirely bare. His pants and his binder– Slade cut them away. 

_Naked._

He’s lying there– completely _exposed_ – in front of his worst enemy. Flushing angrily– because anger feels like a better choice to feel than the _fear_ he shoves deep into the recesses of his mind– Robin protectively crosses his arms over his chest and curls his knees tighter. 

That complete fucking asshole ruined his clothes.

He doesn’t think of the fear lurking at the back of him mind, waiting for the opportunity to pounce, and instead opens his mouth to yell at Slade, and ends up choking around the tip of the man’s boot as Slade kick into mouth. He releases a furious sound, tasting leather and dirt and trying to move back but Slade just follows him, boot digging in all the deeper. 

“How rude,” Slade says idly, as he puts pressure on the boot. “Hiding such a secret from your _master.”_ Robin can hear the smile in his words, and is filled with the desire to punch Slade in the face, but feels his body go cold with Slade’s next words. “Such a naughty little _girl.”_

The boot exits Robin’s mouth and immediately, even before trying to spit out that terrible taste or getting up, Robin’s first words are a correction, “I’m not a _girl,_ I’m a _boy,_ you asshole–“

He cuts off his words as he sees Slade’s boot blur– hands curling around his abdomen because he _will_ throw up if Slade hits him there again– and then _screams_ , wheezing, because Slade didn’t hit his stomach. No, Slade kicked him– down there– in his–

“Really, girl?” Slade sneers, boot pressing down. “You try to be a claim to be boy with a _cunt_ like this?”

Robin flushes at the words, feeling rage boil over as he brings his knee up in a kick– but it doesn’t even make Slade flinch. He shudders, but pushes aside the rising tension and says defiantly, “I’m not _claiming_ anything– it’s what I am, and I’m a _boy_.”

Slade looks down at him coldly, and Robin has a split second to feel relief as the boot leaves only to scream in agony as the man brings it down _again,_ right over there. He gasps, feeling the sole dig in, wiggling between his folds and grinding into his dry opening like it wants to– to enter. 

“It’s not nice to _lie_ , Robin,” Slade says lightly, without a care, boot still pressing against there. “And it’s especially stupid to try to hide the truth when it’s so _obvious.”_

Robin snarls, trying to drag himself away because it hurts and makes him feel so– so _weak_ but Slade is just _there_ again as soon as he manages to move away, too close, hand closing around his throat to drag him up _again_. 

“And trying to deny it to _me?”_ Slade asks scathingly. “You’re not allowed to hide _anything_ from me, girl.” Slade’s other hand drift up to cup his cheek, and for a second, Robin is confused. Then fingers curl around the edge of his mask, and ice cold horror spreads through him.

He tries to jerk his head back, but Slade’s grip is all too tight. “No,” he whispers. Raises his fists, beats them futile against Slade’s chest. “ _No.”_ Tugs futilely at Slade’s arms, digs in his nails, but they don’t even move. “NO!” Legs kick against Slade forcefully, but Slade is silent. “Let me go!”

“Are you done?” He asks lightly, like Robin is the one being unreasonable, like he’s an unruly child in need of discipline. His hand is right where he left it, right at the edge of Robin’s mask.

Robin shudders, feeling his eyes blur. “You _can’t.”_ He states at Slade’s eyes pleadingly, searching for a speck of mercy when he knows he’ll never receive it. “Slade, don’t. _Please_.” His identity isn’t just tied to him. It’s tied to Bruce, to Alfred–and _god_ , he would sooner tear his own _heart_ out than hurt them.

“Please,” he repeats, small and quiet but no less desperate.

He hears the satisfaction in the man’s tone when he orders, “Beg your master for it, girl.”

Robin shudders, feeling loathing for this man like he has for no other– this man who wants to _break_ him and make him break himself– and shoves it down, biting his lip hard enough it goes white. He grits his teeth, then says, “Please, master.”

Slade tilts his face, then gives put out sigh. “You call that begging, _girl?_ Put some feeling into it, at least try to make it believable.” 

He wants to snarl –drag his nails down the man’s face and bite his damned hand off, but. There’s too much on the line. He tries again, trying to keep the hate out of his voice. “Don’t take off the mask, master, _please.”_

Slade stares at him, considering, and Robin hold his breath. “Adequate, I suppose,” he drawls and Robin feels relief–

Slade tears off the mask in one sharp movement– and now, Robin is completely exposed, not a shred of cloth covering any part of him from Slade. 

Robin shrieks, hands flying up to cover his face, like that can protect him. “You _bastard!”_ He gasps, feeling his pulse thrum. He doesn’t like it– Slade being able to look at him every part of him so easily. “You _lied.”_

Chuckling, Slade replies, “I never told you that I _wouldn’t_ take your mask off if you begged, Robin. You assumed, I didn’t _lie._ It was _your_ fault. Now, be a good girl, and let me see your eyes.”

“I’m not–“

“You can argue and watch your friends die, and I can see your face after I break your arms, or you can obey so they live another day, _and_ have unbroken arms. What will it be, _girl?”_

Robin hisses, remembering why he was in this situation in the first place. Slade’s threat about his arms make him flinch–he doesn’t doubt the man would do it for a moment–but his _friends…_ he reluctantly drops his hands, keeping his eyes shut tight, trying to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.

Pain blooms across his cheek right after, and he gasps as blood fills his mouth and his eyes fly open. “I told you, girl, you’re not allowed to hide anything from me,” Slade says, his fist uncurling to grip Robin’s chin, tilting it up towards Slade. 

Blue eyes stare hatefully at grey. 

“And I told you,” Robin snaps back, uncaring if Slade decides to hit him again, “I. Am. A. _Boy.”_

“With such pretty eyes like these?” Slade muses, brushing a thumb across Robin’s lower eyelid. “I think not.” 

Robin bristles. “If you–“

“And not to mention, _these,”_ Slade leers, shifting his hand down to Robin’s small breasts.

Robin squeaks, shifting uncomfortably as Slade’s hand squeezes the lump and rolls a nipple between his fingers. Why is Slade–he couldn’t want to–“W-what are you–“

“And your _cunt_ ,” Slade says, fingers abandoning Robin’s chest to rub into that sensitive part of Robin between his folds. Unbidden, a whine escapes Robin as he arches up on his toes to escape the touch, eyes widening. Slade laughs. “I don’t know what else you could be aside from a girl.”

“U-uniform!” Robin says frantically, a hint of real fear creeping into his voice, trying to squirm out of Slade’s grasp. He doesn’t want to think about it–about why Slade is dragging this out, why he has him naked, why he’s _touching_ him. How suddenly, all of Slade’s looks and cryptic, possessive comments start to shift into perspective.

He doesn’t want to be afraid. 

Doesn’t want to face the _truth._

“You’ve s-seen me. I’m not hiding anything. So just, just give me the uniform... Please.” His voice is barely above a whisper. 

Slade releases a huff of breath– a quiet laugh. “I could tell you that I’m not convinced,” he says, tracing Robin’s opening. “That you could be hiding something up _here.”_ He presses the tip of a gloves index finger against it, not entering yet, but threatening to. “I could give you a dozen excuses, a dozen _lies_.” His thumb brushes against his clit, and Robin has to suppress an undignified noise. “But I think you already know what I want from you, girl.” His finger crooks, the tip of entering, and Robin–

Robin loses it. 

He screams, gripping Slade’s arm tight to drag himself up and away from the fingers. “Let me go, let me go, _let me go!”_

Robin thinks he’s never been quite so _scared_ in his life. Never so _angry._ He looks at Slade, who stares at him with amusement, like Robin’s fear and hurt and struggles are _funny,_ and knows with certainty he’s never _hated_ anyone quite so much in his life. He pushes his feet against the chest, strains against the vice hold on his neck, frantically digs his fingers into the man’s arm, but nothing works. “Let me go,” he whispers, voice dangerously close to cracking, on the verge of tears. 

Slade’s grip on his neck tightens even as his fingers hover there right below his opening, lifting him up till it becomes impossible for Robin’s toes to even touch the floor. Frantically, his mouth stretched open, trying to inhale air, but Slade’s hand doesn’t leave, only tightening. Soon enough, as the lack of oxygen burns in his muscles and his vision starts to grey, his grip weakens till he can’t hold himself up anymore, hands falling away as he slumps down– down onto Slade’s fingers. 

Immediately, the grip on his neck loosens, air mercifully filling his lungs like Slade’s finger fill his cunt, pumping in and out to the beat of his breaths. It’s wrong, _unnatural_ , the gloved texture of Slade’s fingers pressing in and rubbing harshly against his walls– Robin unable to do _anything,_ too breathless and weak to even think of squirming. He simply stays there, suspended in the air between Slade’s hand on his neck and fingers stretching him open. 

“S-stop,” Robin whispers hoarsely as tears prickle his eyes, struggling again as his breath returns. He pulls himself up again, trying to run away from Slade’s fingers, legs pressing against Slade’s thighs in an effort to push him off. “I c-can’t–“

Slade tuts. “Bad girl,” he scolds, squeezing his hand till Robin can’t breathe again. “Don’t struggle.”

Robin chokes, feeling his pulse thrumming against Slade’s hand. But at least, at least Slade’s fingers aren’t _in_ him anymore. No, they just stay there, barely brushing his labia as Slade stares at him, utterly amused.

It’s not long before Robin can’t hold himself up anymore, and just like before, immediately, Slade’s fingers loosen just enough for Robin to breath again while simultaneously, two gloved fingers slip inside to pull him apart again. 

“There you go,” Slade croons, and Robin _sobs_ as he realises Slade’s ultimatum– to let Slade violate him and pull him apart or not be allowed to even _breathe_. He has to– has to let Slade touch him, take and take from him as he touches places _he has no fucking right to,_ or Slade will choke him, the hand wrapped around his neck a constant reminder that Robin isn’t even allowed the most basic bodily function without Slade’s permission. 

The fingers on his neck or the fingers in his cunt– both rough and careless and uncaring of his comfort– he has to choose to subject himself to one or the other and Robin _can’t._

Tears fall without restraint as he realizes, unable to hold himself back. 

“Crying so easily, girl?” Slade mocks. “Well, I suppose you can’t help your nature.”

Robin opens his mouth to protest, and Slade’s fingers tightens again, starting the cycle all over again. He’s not– he’s not even allowed to say a single word in his defense. But Robin can’t stop, can’t just stay still as Slade _touches_ him– the prelude to something _he does not want to think about–_ every time he has an ounce of breathe in him he struggles and fights back.

Slade makes sure to cut off his breath, over and over and _over_ again each time.

Gasp for air–

Struggle for freedom–

Choke on Slade’s hand–

All while the man dispassionately watches.

He can’t decide what’s worse, the _waiting_ and the straining to hold himself while fingers barely brush him down there while _squeezing_ the life out of him, or how he is utterly _helpless_ and unable to lift a damn finger in protest or do anything except sob and try to gulp down precious air as Slade _touches_ him in places where he has no business touching. Or maybe it’s the way Slade looks at him so inscrutably, all while Robin is reduced to such a pathetic mess. 

Slade stays unmoving, even as Robin breaks and begs and _begs_ for Slade to stop. No, all Slade wants from him at this moment is for him to sit still and just take it, and Robin is _terrified,_ every bone shaking and joint rattling because– because no matter how much he wants to deny it, he’s beginning to believe there’s no way out of his.

He _breathes_. 

He _fights_. 

He’s _throttled_. 

Each time, it takes him just a little longer to recover, lungs burning more and more, vision darkening at the edges and pinpointing on Slade, _only_ on Slade. Each time, he fights a little weaker, fists sluggishly pressing against Slade in sloppy movements than can barely be called punches. Each time, Slade’s hand hurts a little more, and Robin learns to dread it, no matter how gently it may cradle him in between the bouts of choking.

It all blurs together. 

_Breathe_.

_Struggle_.

_Choke_.

He’s not sure how many times the cycle has repeated when he’s finally too tired to fight back. It’s long enough that Slade’s fingers feel like too much, too oversensitized and leaving him shaking and shivering. Long enough for his hand to be utterly soaked in Robin’s slick, long enough that every breath is a painful, rattling wheeze that enters and exits. Long enough that Robin’s words have long since dried out even if his tears haven’t. 

“Good girl,” Slade murmurs, and Robin shudders, too weak to even glare at him. _Not a girl_. His fingers finally slip out and he lowers Robin so that his feet touch ground again. The hand on Robin’s neck lets go, and Robin gasps painfully at how easily air enters his lung again. That’s only a moment before he sways and goes crashing to the floor. 

Strong arms catch him under his shoulders as his knees hit the ground, eliciting a pained cry. Robin sobs, resting his head against Slade’s thigh, hoping without hope that this is all Slade wanted, that he’s _not_ going to try anything else.

Slade laughs softly, one hand curling in his hair to guide his head to right in front of his crotch. “So eager to get on your knees for me, Robin?”

Robin’s eyes widen, and he frantically pushes back. “No–!”

“Shush, girl.” Slade’s hand press against the side of his neck again, a reminder of what awaited him if he struggles, and Robin shudders to a still. 

“Please.” His voice is hoarse, wrecked, and barely a whisper, but he knows Slade can hear. Through blurred eyes, he stares pleadingly up at the man, words escaping even as Slade’s hand curls around his neck again. “Please– Slade–I _can’t.”_

A thumb brushes away away his tears gently, but Robin shudders away nonetheless. He knows all too well what these very same hands are capable of. “You will,” Slade says softly, grip tightening, and then he’s lifting Robin up again, and–

–Robin flies through the air for the briefest of moments before he’s crashing to the floor again, rolling as his shoulder and hips bruise painfully, every part of his body aching. 

He comes to a stop, and _breathes._

He should get back up, fight. He can fight Slade, he knows he can. He’s done it before. _Stop_ Slade before he– before he does anything else. His neck aches, and it _stings_ down there, and he trembles as he pushes himself up. If he fights, he hurts.

_Stupid,_ he scolds himself, pushing himself up on his elbows. Slade will hurt him either way. But his hesitation lasts a beat too long, and Slade is on him. He pushes back, but all it takes is Slade’s hand on his neck for his knees to go weak and he’s crashing painfully to the floor again, head thumping. 

“D-don’t–“ Robin stutters. Weakly, he pushes against Slade. 

“Hit like a girl too,” Slade muses, settling comfortably between Robin’s legs, not even bothering to push away Robin’s hands. “And suddenly your abysmal strength makes sense in retrospect.”

Robin wants to _laugh_ – has Slade even seen Starfire hit? Considering the women he knows, that comment could be considered a _compliment–_ but he’s too breathless, too scared, too much in pain to laugh. 

He looks at Slade with pleading eyes, as his arms fall to the floor, utterly useless things against Slade. “Please,” he begs. “Don’t.”

Slade pays no heed to Robin’s words, unmovable as always, and instead lifts up Robin’s knees upto his shoulders, bending him nearly in half. 

There is the _schick_ of a zipper being pulled down, and then– oh _fuck_ – Slade’s cock is _big–_ is it supposed to– it couldn’t possibly fit–

His breaths come short and shallow, fear choking up his throat, as the tip of the cock rests against his opening. As Slade’s hand rests on his neck, it’s not made any easier. “ _Slade,”_ he repeats desperately, hands curling and nails digging into skin as he forces himself not to grab at Slade. Fighting only makes it worse. “Don’t. I-I’ll do what you want, so _please–“_

Slade pauses, deliberating for an agonizing minute. Leans down. Enough for Robin to feel the breath of his exhale on his face. 

“Admit it,” he says softly. “Admit you’re a girl.”

Robin flinches violently. “That’s not true,” he whispers. “That’s not true, you can’t make me–“

The man’s hips cant, the head of his cock bumping Robin’s folds, and Robin freezes. It presses–

“Very well, then, girl,” Slade says indifferently, pushing and Robin–

“I am!” Robin blurts our in a panic, and _hates_ himself for it. 

Slade pauses, tilting his head as if indicating Robin to continue.

Robin swallows. These are just words. Lies. They’re _not true._ “I-I’m, I’m,” he stutters, then chokes it out, words like ashes on his tongue. “I’m a girl.” _I’m not. I_ am _a_ boy, he reminds himself.

“Apologize,” Slade orders. “For lying. For pretending to be something you weren’t. _Say it.”_

Searching for traces of mercy on Slade’s face is an exercise in futility, but Robin does it anyway, and sobs as he doesn’t find it. “I’m sorry. F-for lying. For p-pre-pretending to be a b-boy.” He chokes on every word as he forces it out of his throat, squeezing them past Slade’s hand and pushing them past his mouth. _They’re only words_. They don’t matter. This is just so Slade won’t–

“Good girl, Robin,” Slade says, almost fondly, drawing back, and Robin sobs, this time in relief, but–

There’s this _glint_ in Slade’s eye–

He’s pulling back in towards Robin, _why is he doing that–_

Slade slams in and Robin’s world explodes in pain like he’s never felt he before.

“Ah-aahHH!” Robin screams, takes a sobbing breath, then screams again.

“Silly girl,” Slade laughs. “You’d think you’d learn the first time that I will do _whatever_ I want with you regardless of what _you_ want. I own you, _kid,_ your every thought, your body, your cunt, your _virginity._ And I’ll take what’s owed to me when _I_ want _.”_

It’s too much. 

He can’t take it.

Slade is going to _tear_ him in half, and _laugh_ while Robin falls apart.

He sobs and cries and screams and chokes as Slade forces every agonising inch into him, the hand on his neck tightening with Slade’s rising frustration at being unable to enter him fully, and then, he pulls out–

Surely, Slade _understands?_ That this can’t _work_? That it’s not _possible_ for him to fit–

He slams back in, and Robin gasps in pain, tears falling uncontrollably. His eyes squeeze shut, trying to deny the reality of what was happening. 

Slade’s hand tightens, and he orders, “Keep your eyes _open,_ girl.” Robin shuts his eyes tighter, trying to shake his head –Slade _squeezes,_ and it hurts so much it eclipses the pain below. “Don’t make me break your neck.”

And Slade _would,_ Robin knows it in his bones– break his neck and continue using Robin till he decided he was done with him.

He doesn’t want to die like this. Speared by Slade’s cock, choking around his hand.

Watery, reddened eyes shudder open to stare into Slade’s unforgiving one. His lips part, a whimper escaping in search of air. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Slade loosens his hand, and Robin gratefully intakes air, but Slade’s hands stay there, a warning not to disobey.

Slade pushes into him again, unforgiving and forcefully rearranging his inner parts to make room for Slade, and Robin swears Slade’s tearing more and more of him with every thrust, his blood staining the man’s cock and being pushed out of him because Slade _still_ is trying to force himself into Robin’s opening, and there just isn’t enough _space._ It’s painful– it’s so painful and wrong and it _hurts_ and he can’t stop _crying–_

–he should be _stronger_ than this–

–the hand on his neck is _so_ heavy–

–but Slade is stronger than him in every way, and Robin _can’t_ fight, can only lie there and cry and take it and _hope_ that Slade will be done with him soon enough.

Slade stills, sighing as he relishes the warmth of Robin’s pussy fully enveloping him, and Robin shudders, feeling the man’s balls rest against his skin. He gasps, trying hard not to move because it’s too much, he feels so full, stretched and pushed to his limit, and moving, even trembling, makes everything _worse_ , his walls rubbing and spamming against– against Slade’s cock. But the thought, the realisation that yes, Slade’s cock is in _him,_ is _raping_ him, that this _happening,_ makes him cry and shiver _harder_ and it _hurts._

“Don’t cry, Robin,” Slade soothes, but Robin hears the mocking edge all too well. “That only makes me want to fuck you _harder.”_ And Slade does, speeding up and every thrust hitting deep and forcefully like it’s a freight train and not a cock.

“You have a tight little cunt, don’t you, girl?” Slade murmurs into his ear, as Robin cries. “Your cunt takes my cock _so_ well. Like you were _made_ for me.” 

Robin’s hand clench on Slade’s shoulders– he doesn’t know when they got there, but Slade didn’t even bother to push them off because they both know how _useless_ Robin’s struggles are. 

“N-no,” Robin still sobs a denial– because what else is he supposed to do, what else can he do? “I’m-I’m _not_ – I _wasn’t_ –“

Slade chuckles above him– and shamefully, Robin falls silent.

He speeds up again, brutal and rough and shaking Robin’s body with each move– and Robin’s body aches painfully from being bent for so long. He just wants Slade to be _done–_ for this entire nightmare to be _over._

“So tight, girl,” Slade repeats, hot breath escaping through his mask to brush against his ear. “The way your cunt is pulling me in– _ah–_ you really are perfect for this, aren’t you?”

Robin just weakly shakes his head, breaths coming short and fast. 

“It’s like it’s begging for me to fill you up with my come, girl. I think I should oblige, shouldn’t I?” 

Robin goes cold, eyes widening. “N-no, no p-please– Slade– don’t do t-that, _please–“_

He’s cut of by Slade’s hand tightening, pressing painfully against the blooming bruises. He can’t breathe, can’t talk– Slade won’t let him speak a _word_ of protest. “Please,” he gasps with the last bit of air he has left, tears streaming down once more.

“Shush, girl,” Slade chides. “I’m only using you like you were _meant_ to be used.”

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull out, doesn’t loosen his grip– and Robin suffers through each stabbing moment that stretches out. He doesn’t know how he’s still able to cry when every inch of his body feels wrung out, when he’s so dizzy that Slade begins to swim in his vision, when there is not a single breath left in him. 

Slade grunts, his hand tightening so much Robin is sure he will break–

His vision darkens–

Slade’s voice, low and cruel and pleased, “ _Ah– yes,_ fill you up _just_ like you should be–“

Warmth blooms in him, filling up with a burning hotness– Slade’s _come–_

Slade lets go of his neck, and he can breathe again, even if he’s no longer sure he wants to– not with Slade and his seed in him.

He wants to sleep. Sleep and never wake up.

Instead, he cries, arms tightening around Slade in a misplaced, instinctive search for comfort. He wants to be anywhere but here– but Slade is the only one _here._ He can’t make his arms unwind no matter how much he tries. He sobs, ugly and loud, and buries his head against Slade’s shoulders because this _happened_ – there’s no changing that and Robin will _never, ever_ be able to erase this– and he can’t stand to _look_ at the man who’s done this to him. 

“I hate you,” he confesses between sobs. Perhaps not the best thing to say in his position, but it’s _true._ “I hate you so _much.”_

Slade chuckles, slipping out carelessly and sending a _zing_ of pain up Robin’s spine that makes him whine, but warps his arms around him nonetheless, sitting up and letting Robin’s legs fall around him. Come drips out of Robin’s cunt and stains his thighs, but he doesn’t seem to mind, lazily tracing soothing circles on Robin’s back. He croons, “Poor little thing, so confused about what you want, aren’t you, boy?”

Robin shudders– but, wait– 

What did– 

What did Slade just call him?

He pushes back stumbling onto the floor, looking at Slade with wide eyes. “What did you–“

“What’s the matter, boy? Trouble hearing things?” Slade mocks him.

He goes cold– he didn’t hear wrong, Slade’s calling him a boy again when he’s been calling him _wrong_ this whole time. “Why–“

“You are a boy, aren’t you?” Slade asks, lazily watching.

Robin lies on the floor, disbelieving. “I-I don’t understand–“

“I don’t give a damn what you are, boy, I’d have fucked you either way,” Slade says, amusement dripping off every word. “If not in your cunt, then in your ass.”

Robin’s head swims, struggling to comprehend Slade’s actions. Slade knew that he was a _boy,_ and still spent this entire time calling him a _girl_ ? That didn’t even make any _sense._

“If you _knew,_ then _why?”_ Robin gasps, because he doesn’t understand at _all. “_ Why–why misgender me like that?”

Slade smiles, looking down at Robin’s collapsed form. “Because it _hurt_ you. Because it’s a _weakness_ , and I don’t tolerate weakness in _my_ things. Because you have a _cunt_ that I can _fuck,_ so why shouldn’t I. And because,” he says, laying a gentle hand on Robin’s stomach. “You can give me what I want, _so why shouldn’t I_ take _it?”_

Robin stares at the hand, something sickening crawling up his throat, Slade's insistence on coming in him taking on a new tone. “You–“

“You will give me a child won’t you,” Slade purrs, wrenching Robin’s head up by his hair.

His breaths come faster now, choking on the cold cold air, because Slade-

He wants Robin.

To give him a _child._

For him to get _pregnant._

And Robin might be on hormone blockers right now, but how long will it last, without access to his medication? How long will it take, for Slade to succeed? 

“No,” the sound is faint, barely a whisper, as the reality– the _horror_ – of what Slade wants sets in. “No, no, no, non _oNO_!”

“ _Y_ _es,”_ Slade corrects, squeezing the sides of Robin’s face. “You are going to bear my child, Robin, because you're _mine._ ‘No’ isn’t a word in your vocabulary, not to _me_.”

He tugs futilely against Slade’s grip, trying to wrench out of his grasp, but Slade’s grip gets ever tighter. Tears spill out of his eyes all over again, soaking into Slade’s gloves. “Please,” he mouths, desperate blue eyes staring up into Slade’s own.

Slade sighs, like it’s _Robin_ who’s being an unreasonable idiot. “Don’t make me break your jaw, pet,” he murmurs, his grasp ever tightening. 

And Robin doesn’t doubt him, but the violent flinch it elicits is instinctual and he knows by the tightening of Slade’s eye it doesn’t mean anything good–

_CRACK–_

The distinct sound of a bone breaking and white hot painpain _pain_ shoots up his face and he howls, thrashing even more in Slade’s grip and tears flow but never stop and–

“ _Robin,”_ Slade chastises him like an unruly pet, muffling his screams by squeezing his mouth shut. “Quiet, boy. Your speech privileges are now revoked till you learn how to speak to your master.”

And Robin wants to laugh– hysterical, because Slade is going to fuck him up and ruin his life and _knock him up_ but apparently can’t stand even the possibility of Robin backtalking– but he’s already crying so all that comes out are even more choked sobs. 

Fingers are _t_ _here_ again, prying him open all over again. 

“Now,” Slade says with a hum. It reverberates all the way down his hand through his gloves to soak through Robin’s sink to his very bones. “Let’s try again, shall we?” 

He spreads open Robin’s folds, then sinks in, and Robin feels his soul and identity sink with him. “Who knows,” Slade remarks. “Maybe you’ll even come this time.”

Robin stares blankly, and tries not to move his jaw, tries not to cry. 

_Over ninety percent of victims of rape and sexual assault are female,_ Robin remembers learning, reading on the Batcomputer. 

That shouldn’t affect him.

He’s a _boy._

He’s _not_ a _girl._

...Isn’t he? 

But if that’s true, why is he here?

Why is Slade touching him, fucking him, trying to _impregnate_ him? Is this his fault? Because he isn’t a good enough boy? Because he is– he _isn’t–_ too much of a girl? If he had been born with the matching parts like most people, would he still have ended up here? 

He knows what Slade said– that he’d fuck him either way– but Slade is a _liar._

...does that mean it _is_ his fault?

_Maybe I deserve this,_ he thinks numbly, pain an ever present dull throb, vision swimming as Slade’s hips snap and his balls hit Robin’s skin. 

_Maybe_ I _am the liar here._

The man gives a particularly rough thrust, knocking Robin’s head harshly, and blissfully, in search of an end, Robin embraces darkness.

And Slade– 

Slade keeps fucking him.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed it ;)
> 
> and happy valentine's day!! be happy and eat chocolate!!! if no one buys you any, go out and treat yourself to some 
> 
> just please don't celebrate the way the slade does (by torturing robin and making him cry) haha


End file.
